


Standing By

by oooknuk



Series: Standing By [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 20:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: A man loves a man who loves another. Ain't it a bitch?





	Standing By

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Not many really. Language, angst, and the same level of violence as in the episodes from 'Comes a horsemen' through to just before 'Archangel' . No sex.

It was definitely the longest vigil of Joe's life. How many men would come out? He prayed for two, but the odds didn't look good, not with all that had been happening. His eyes strained to see something - anything - through the dense, oily smoke pouring out of the building entrance. There. Finally. His assignment and his assignment's former best friend were emerging into the daylight from the submarine base. Joe'd Watched until Kronos and Silas had lost their heads, and beat a strategic retreat while the power of the dual Quickenings raged, blowing out power lines in the immediate area, and nearly the structure of the building as well. That meant he missed what had occurred between the three surviving Immortals. And 'tense' couldn't begin to describe the atmosphere between that bunch. 'Homicidal rage', maybe.

Not long after the last explosions ended, Cassandra ran out sobbing. Why, Joe had no idea - her enemies were dead now. He couldn't figure that one at all. Many minutes later,  Methos and MacLeod came out too, blessedly whole but definitely worse for wear. The Highlander was ragged and bloodstained, but he was practically regal in appearance compared to the other Immortal - 'dragged through a hedge backwards' and 'road kill' sprang to Joe's mind. He was struck, even more than by the bloody, ripped clothing, by Methos' hangdog air. Joe was no longer surprised by 'Adam Pierson's' chameleon-like ability to appear cute and harmless when the occasion called for it - but the weary shamefacedness, the way the old man held himself to make himself small and unobtrusive, as if drawing attention to himself might attract anger or worse - that, he saw, was no act. Nor was the careful distance Methos was keeping from Mac - or was that the other way around?

The Highlander didn't look back at the older Immortal as he approached Joe. "Where did Cassandra go?" he asked.

Joe pointed in the direction and Mac nodded. "I better go after her."

"Mac, what happened? Why was she crying?"

MacLeod's face darkened as if at some bitter memory. "I had to stop her...."

Joe was puzzled, but then realised where the Highlander was carefully not looking. "Killing ....? Jesus, Macleod!" How close had that bitch got to whacking their favourite ex-Horseman? And when did she get the chance? After the Quickenings?

Mac nodded, but was clearly unwilling to say more about it. "Joe - there's a cleanup needed..."

His words trailed off. Joe understood - Mac usually cleared up his own messes, but this one was worse than most. There was a shitload of biocontaminants to dispose of, too. "We'll take care of it, Mac." Unseen by Methos, MacLeod's eyes flickered sideways in his direction. "I'll take care of it," Joe said quietly.

"Okay. I'll see you back in Paris, Joe. I'll be at the Hotel de Sezes for a couple of days." With that, the Highlander strode off without a backwards glance - at either of them. Joe saw Methos' eyes track the Scot, but the older man made no move to follow him, or say goodbye. He simply stood still, swaying ever so slightly, looking like three-day-old crap.

"Have you got anything to pick up?' Joe asked, and Methos startled, moving backwards.

"Uh ... nothing important. A ... a backpack?" His words stumbled out uncertainly. Joe realised with shock that Methos' face was tear-stained. Why had _he_ been crying?

"Anything incriminating?"

"My journal." It horrified Joe that it was only now dawning on Methos that his diary was perhaps best not seen by Watchers or the police. And the cops would probably be there any minute. The Immortal drew himself up wearily. "Give me a minute before you call anyone, will you?"

"Sure - listen, you don't have anywhere to stay, right? I got two beds in my hotel room..."

Again, Methos looked startled. "You want me to come back with you?" he asked in apparently genuine confusion.

"You got a problem with that?" Joe said, as if there wasn't even the slightest possibility that _he_ had a problem with it.

"No - not if you don't. But what about MacLeod?" Methos' dull tone and duller eyes might have fooled anyone else into thinking he didn't care about the answer, but Joe knew better and he also knew what the real question was.

"MacLeod doesn't make decisions about who I hang out with, Methos. Let's get your stuff."

The building was still exuding smoke, and its acridness made Joe's eyes water. There was still the odd crackle and spit from the fried electricals, and he didn't much like the creaks and groans he heard. At first he could only see Silas' corpse, but remembered that MacLeod had fought Kronos upon on a higher level. He could just make out the other body in the gloom.

He noticed Methos avoided looking at either as they climbed the iron stairs to Kronos' lair. "I guess they were good friends once," Joe said, trying to keep any judgement out of his voice, but Methos still stared at him grimly, his mouth drawn tightly down in apparent disgust.

"They were stone cold killers, Dawson. Just like me." The mouth drew down even more. "Doesn't that make you wonder if I'll murder you in your sleep?"

The picture of misery trying to look hard and vicious would have made Joe laugh if it weren't so pathetic. You'll have to do better than that, Methos, if you want me to believe you could do that, he thought wryly. "Is that something you're likely to do?" he answered calmly, refusing to even pretend to be intimidated.

"If you believe them, it is."

Joe didn't need to ask who the 'them' was. "I make my own mind up, I told you."

"It's all true. you know," Methos said heavily, staring into the depths of the submarine base. "Everything she said, everything I told MacLeod. All of it and more. I killed for pleasure. I killed because I wanted to, because I wanted to... to control, to cause fear, or maybe because I wanted a new bridle, a new bracelet. Sometimes just because I'd got a new weapon and it needed blooding."

The mental pictures made Joe nauseous, just as they had a week earlier. Cassandra had made sure that he and Mac had the clearest possible knowledge of Methos' previous identity, and it hadn't been pretty. But years of practice allowed him to prevent his feelings showing. "Slaughtered any innocents recently?"

"Define 'recently'."

"Oh, say, like the last two thousand years?"

Methos turned slowly. "Don't even try to minimise what I did, Dawson. Don't try to kid yourself I'm not so bad, or it was all a long time ago. Look at Cassandra. Try and tell her it was too long in the past to be important." He turned away again. "Don't tell me that I shouldn't remember it like it was yesterday," he whispered.

"I won't. I'm not. Look at your feet, Methos."

Methos turned to face him, puzzlement written all over his thin features. "What?"

"Look at your feet, just there. Can 't you see it - him?"

"Who?" Only confusion, a little concern. He hadn't worked it out yet.

"A ten year old kid I killed - I murdered - in Vietnam."

Methos made a sound of ... disgust? exasperation? ... and moved to turn away but Joe grabbed his arm. "What's the matter? You got a copyright on killing?"

"War isn't the same thing, Dawson."

"This wasn't war. It was revenge." He wondered privately if now was the right time to tell the old man about this, but if he didn't, the moment would be lost. And so might Methos. "We lost two of our unit, found them in spear traps. Looked like they took a while to die. We raided a village nearby, trying to make women tell us where the men were, which ones were in the Viet Cong. They wouldn't tell us. My captain told me to round up the kids. Found most of them in a hut, and I pushed them out at the point of my rifle. But you see, there was this one kid, decided to run. And I ... I shot him. In the back. Shot him because he was scared, because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just a little kid, so high," he indicated with his hand. "That wasn't war. I see his eyes, see him running and then dropping, every day. Have done for thirty years. So no, I don't think you'll be forgetting any time soon, Methos. But I'll tell you something for free." He pointed down at the corpses. "I bet they did. That's the difference between you and them. Not that you couldn't do it again. But now you care what happens when you do."

Methos pursed his lips, apparently about to say something, but then he shook his head and walked away. Joe stayed where he was, confident the old man would return, which he did, carrying a small pack and a coat. He'd splashed water on his face while he was gone, Joe noted, washing away the grief marks. "Are you sure about this?" Methos asked with uncharacteristic hesitancy. "I can find a room."

"If that's what you want," Joe said evenly. "It doesn't make any difference to me - but since the Watchers are paying, I figure you may as well get the benefit." It was like drawing in a wounded wild animal, he thought. Don't push - don't let him know you care. Put the bait out, and back off. And after a minute, it was taken.

"All right. Thank you." Methos waited politely for Joe to lead the way - he wouldn't know where the car was parked for a start, but there was still this curious deference, almost as if he was waiting for something. Punishment, retribution, Joe guessed. Well, the old man had come to the wrong place. That was MacLeod's bag, if it was anyone's.

Methos hugged himself tight, staring blindly out the window. The day was incongruously bright and cheerful, Joe thought, after the grim happenings at the sub base.  People hurrying to work as usual, unaware of how close they had all come to annihilation. Methos didn't say a word as Joe negotiated the traffic. It was early enough for the rush hour to slow them down - Jesus, it felt like he hadn't been to bed for a week, and he bet the old man hadn't slept well while he was with that bastard Kronos. As Joe pulled up into the parking lot of the hotel, he glanced at his companion and didn't care for what he saw. Methos was deep inside himself, his eyes lost and blank, mouth set as if it would never smile again and tiredness all too apparent. When Joe touched his arm, he jumped. "Take it easy - we're here," Joe said, stating the obvious.

Without a word, Methos followed Joe into the lobby, wrapped in his coat which fortunately bore no marks of the titanic battle he and MacLeod had fought. The Quickening was one of the most furious Joe had ever been near - he thought the whole base was going to collapse around his ears at one point. Who the hell knew what it was like to be at the epicentre? Certainly none better than the man now silently walking beside him up to his room.

Joe opened the door and threw his key on the dresser. "Make yourself at home, Methos. The bathroom's through there. I'm gonna call for some breakfast - you want something?" Methos started to shake his head. "Come on, you gotta be hungry after that Quickening."

"Okay. Coffee, croissants. Thank you." Again with the formal thanks, Joe noted.

The old man took his sweet time in the bathroom, but looked better - cleaner, that was for sure, dressed only in the hotel-provided bathrobe. "I'll have to get my clothes cleaned," he explained. "And I don't suppose you have a sweater I could borrow?"

"Sure I do. Just leave what you want taken care of outside, and relax. You're safe now."

Methos looked startled, his eyes wide and questioning before his sharp features softened slightly in a smile. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I am. It feels good, Joe." He put his dirty clothes outside the door, then sat on the spare bed and scrubbed at his hair with a towel. "I really needed that - Kronos frowned on personal hygiene. He thought it wasn't manly. It was like living in a pigpen."

"Didn't that make it kinda hard for him to blend in?"

"That really wasn't something Kronos cared about."

"Good thing he's not around then," Joe said. Methos winced and stared down at the towel in his hands.

"Yes." Then he looked up. "Joe? You do know what I did - what you did - that there's no equivalence, don't you? I put a bomb in the Place de Quinqonces. If it had gone off, dozens of people would be dead now. You could easily be one of them."

"Mac defused it, Methos. With your help."

"But what if he hadn't?"

"What would you have done?"

Methos stood up, threw the towel into the corner of the room and ran his hand through his damp hair. "I don't know. I just don't bloody know. I kept trying not to think about it - I kept hoping Mac would come through and I wouldn't have to make that decision. He thought I had, but I hadn't. I just ... I didn't want to die, Joe," he said pleadingly. "But I didn't want Mac to die, you - Cassandra - to die either. I didn't want anyone to die - not anyone innocent. I didn't have a plan, I just had this ... desperation."

"But Mac did come through. And we're all alive."

"No thanks to me," Methos said bitterly, going to stand by the window and playing aimlessly with the cord holding the drapes.

"Maybe, maybe not. All that really matters is the result."

"Not to MacLeod," Methos said, almost to himself.

"Give him time, Methos. He's had one hell of a shock, and Cassandra's got him all worked up. He'll come round, you'll see."

Methos turned to face him, his mouth twisted in what no one would call a smile. "Not our noble Highlander. What I've done he can't ever forgive."

"And what makes you think he's so damn lilywhite?" Joe demanded.

"I've read the Chronicles, Dawson. There's a conspicuous absence of rape and pillage in them."

"Yeah, but there's plenty Mac's ashamed of, don't let him tell you different. And it eats him up to think about it. He's not Amanda - he's got a conscience, it hurts."

"I don't," Methos said coolly.

"Bullshit, Methos. If you didn't have a conscience, would we be talking about this now?"

Methos stared unblinkingly at him. "Maybe it's all part of my devious plan. All part of my act to make you feel sorry for me."

"Okay, maybe. We mortals aren't real good at understanding five thousand year old men, what it must have been like all those millennia ago. But from where I'm standing, I see a guy who's sorry and who's hurting. If it's an act, hey, give that boy the Oscar." He stared steadily back until the hard mask cracked, and Methos laughed reluctantly.

"Dawson, I'm so glad you aren't Immortal. The world isn't big enough for more than one lifetime of you."

"Well, thank you, sir. Get the door, will ya? I'm gonna take a leak."

Man, that kid is screwed up, Joe thought, zipping up his fly. Hanging out for Mac's approval or his forgiveness or something - and Joe wasn't sure it was ever going to be on offer. He and the Highlander hadn't had a whole lot of time to talk - and he'd only just managed to convince Cassandra's Watcher to let him do the Watching for both the Immortals - but he knew MacLeod was as in as much pain as the man in the other room. It reminded him of Mac's behaviour over Brian Cullen, the same unwillingness to believe that his friend could hold such darkness - but to Joe's mind, the two cases weren't the same at all. Cullen was never going to give up the drugs, no matter how long he lived. Methos, he would bet his pension and a chance to get back his legs on it, would never return to the old ways. Damn, he had to believe that. The alternative - nah, let's not go there, Dawson, he told himself.

The subject of his thoughts was hunched over a cup of coffee, the heavy weariness again draped over his features. He picked at a croissant while Joe sat down to the considerably more substantial meal he'd ordered himself. "When do you go back to Paris?" Methos asked.

"That depends - when do you need to go back?"

Methos stared at him, then shook his head. "I don't know if I'm going to go back, Joe. Make your own plans."

"And why wouldn't you go back, Methos? You have an apartment, your studies - your teaching." Methos wouldn't look at him. "Because of MacLeod?"

"That's a good enough reason, don't you think?"

"What's the matter, Methos? You don't think he's gonna whack you, do you?"

"No. At least, not yet."

Joe snorted in disgust. "You're not threatening him, you're not threatening those he loves and you're not killing indiscriminately. Why would he kill you?"

"Are you being deliberately obtuse, Dawson?" Methos drawled, sitting back. "I raped and enslaved a woman he's fond of, if not more. I nearly killed a great many people with Kronos' virus. And my past sins...:"

"Are in the past, and you know it, so does he. Killing you doesn't bring them back to life, doesn't fix Cassandra."

"And the bomb? It was really going to go off, you know. I couldn't risk Kronos discovering a dummy."

"Mac stopped it. You made sure he did - why did you meet him, by the way? You could've told him on the phone."

Methos looked away, and Joe's instincts told him he was on to something. "Spill, Methos. Were you trying to separate Mac and Cassandra?"

"No!" The slammed fist rattled the cups. "Damn you, that wasn't it! He thought ... Kronos thought ... no! I thought she was safe, I didn't realise Kronos had any idea where they were. I still don't know how the hell he found her."

"But you drew Mac away from her."

"I drew him to me." Methos shut his mouth suddenly as if he had revealed too much.

"Go on, old man."

"I think this conversation is over, Dawson," Methos said tightly, getting up, taking his cup over to the armchair which he turned to face out towards the window. Joe considered taking the hint, but he hadn't run a bar for years without learning a thing or two and all his instincts told him that Methos wanted to talk. He could imagine how the conversation with MacLeod in the church had gone - the Highlander had looked like he was chewing broken glass for a week, and Joe had witnessed the bitter exchange between the former friends at the submarine base.

With difficulty, he shoved another chair over near the window and sank into it. "Joe, please," Methos said severely, but even as he spoke, he was helping Joe straighten the chair and get his stick out of the way of his legs.

"So tell me - why did you have to see Mac?"

"Nosy bastard."

"Hey, it's a living. Why?"

Methos sighed, tipping his head back. "It really isn't important now - I did more harm than good."

"But that doesn't explain..."

"I just wanted to see him again, okay?"

Joe kept his gaze steady - he knew he'd learn more if he kept quiet and he wasn't disappointed. Methos looked out the window. "He said we were through. I... just wanted to see him, talk to him again. I thought ... I thought it might be the last time." Then the Immortal turned and looked directly at Joe, his eyes limpid, wide and bruised. The realisation hit Joe like a bucket of ice water, and seeing his expression, Methos' mouth twisted. "Satisfied now, Watcher?" He turned away.

"Methos, I'm sorry..."

" _Now_ you're sorry," Methos said gruffly, his voice thick.

Joe leaned forward, put a hand on the terry cloth covered arm. "Yeah, I am. Look, Mac needs some time but you don't need to run away because of him. You know he'll never hurt you."

"He already did, Joe. He may as well have taken my head." Methos pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he was in pain. "Damn, I hate this."

"Loving someone?" Joe asked quietly.

"Losing someone." He turned to look at Joe again.

"Give him time. You killed Silas, you helped bring them down - he'll work it out."

"Cassandra will tell him the truth, at least as it was, Joe. I was the brains of that outfit. How long before he realises he left one of the rodents alive?"

"Rodent? Snake, maybe."

Methos laughed a little. "Okay, snake. And Mac is Rikki Tikki Tavi."

"He's your friend."

"Not any more."

"Sure he is. He just doesn't know it yet."

Another short incredulous laugh. "You're something else, Joe Dawson."

Joe bowed solemnly. "You're welcome." And Methos laughed again.

He stood up. "Do you mind if I watch TV? I can't exactly go out like this," he said, indicating his robe.

"Sure. I'm going downstairs, I got people to call. You'll be okay?"

"Eventually. Off you go." Methos made shooing movements with his hand, which might have seemed rude except for the tired sadness in his eyes.

Joe went down to the lobby and called Headquarters with a carefully coded message to report the deaths of the Horsemen. His full written report could wait until he got back to Paris. What couldn't wait was talking to Mac, not after what he'd just heard.

He called the Hotel de Sezes and was put through to MacLeod's room. The Highlander answered in a whisper which told Joe Cassandra must be asleep, and told the Watcher he would call him back in five, which he did.

"HI Joe - sorry, I didn't want to disturb her. What's up?"

"Just wanted to let you know Methos is okay."

"Was there ever any doubt about that, Dawson?" Mac said in a voice that just about froze the circuits in Joe's cell phone. Jesus, Mac, he thought. That's harsh even for you, but he didn't say as much. This was already tricky enough.

"Well considering who you two guys took on, yeah, I guess there might have been."

" _We_?" Mac said incredulously. "He was saving his skin and left me to fight the three of them."

"He killed Silas."

"He said he _liked_ Silas. Jesus, Joe - the man was sobbing his guts out over killing him. It was pretty obvious how he felt about the whole thing."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right," Mac said stubbornly.

"Well, maybe you should leave the Watching to me, MacLeod. That's not what I saw and it ain't what I see now."

A painful silence, and Joe could almost hear MacLeod fighting not to be the one to break it. But finally - "What do you want, Joe?"

"I just want you and the old man to talk..."

"We've got nothing to talk about, Dawson."

"Oh, I think you do, MacLeod. When is Cassandra leaving?"

"This afternoon. Why?"

"Well, how about you and him meeting up - on holy ground, maybe?"

"What's it to you, Joe? This is Immortal business, nothing to do with the Watchers."

"This is my business because you two are my friends and it's killing me watching the two of like this."

"And whose fault is that?"

The shout made Joe rip the phone away from his ear and scowl at it. "You want to say that a little louder, MacLeod? I don't think they heard you in Calais."

"You keep out of this...."

"Mac, I'm gonna get him to the Elysium Church at four. If you're smart, you'll be there."

Another long pause. "I can't get there for four - her plane doesn't leave until then," Mac explained with reluctance clear in his voice.

"Make it five. And Mac, do it. He needs it and God only knows you do. You don't need to lose another friend."

The call disconnected. No fool like an old fool, Joseph, he told himself. Methos was going to be as pissed as Mac, but he'd had enough of their estrangements. After the Galati thing, he'd suffered the Highlander's wrath, and it had taken even longer for Mac to forgive Methos. Methos leaving the Watchers, just as Joe had, had made no difference to MacLeod's anger. Even after Methos had revealed himself to Richie in a futile attempt to convince the kid the false Methos was spinning a yarn, Mac didn't seem to appreciate the depth of the concession. It had taken months for them to be civil, longer to be friendly again. And now this. Joe was sick of it. He loved both of them, and he didn't want to see them hurting each other, end of damn story. And if he had to whup the hides off both of them with his stick, he would.

The TV was still on, but no one was watching. He smiled to himself at the sight - Methos curled up on the bed in the borrowed white robe, his face relaxed and innocent in sleep. Joe got a spare blanket and walked to the bed to drop it over the other man, bending over - and as he looked at the impossibly young face, it hit him. Oh, _shit,_ he nearly said. No, this was ... dammit. But there it was. Between one second and another, he fell and fell hard, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. And there was no fucking way he could ever tell anyone either.

He tucked the blanket around Methos, who wriggled a little in contentment but never woke. Joe's chest hurt in a way he thought he had got over long ago. He should, he knew, walk out, go downstairs with his laptop and busy himself with his job. Sitting here, watching Methos sleep, trusting and open in a way he knew the Immortal rarely was, would do him no good at all. And yet there he sat, for hours.

 

* * *

As he predicted, Methos wasn't happy. "For God's sake, Joe! Why the hell do you have to interfere?!" Joe struggled with twin urges to ruffle Methos' messy bedhair and to stick him with the steak knife that had been delivered with the room service lunch. The old man had been raving for five minutes, not even slightly mollified by the good food or the wine Joe had taken the precaution of ordering. "And have you forgotten my clothes are currently being laundered? Am I supposed to add public scandalisation to my other crimes?!"

"No, and that I can fix if you give me your credit card and your measurements."

Methos moved back as if he'd been stung by a wasp. "Are you out of your tiny mortal mind?"

"There's a men's clothing store downstairs. They sell everything and they'll take phone orders and deliver. I asked."

"You asked. Well, then that's okay then. At least I'll be immaculately turned out when MacLeod takes my head."

The steak knife was definitely winning. "Methos, holy ground, okay? You need to talk."

" _Later_ , Dawson. Even you said give him time."

"Methos, you forget. I know this guy. If he's gonna brood, at least give him the facts. Right now, he thinks you set him up."

"Well, I did." Joe stared in shock and Methos retreated. "Well, a little."

"Did you mean him to fight all of them?"

"No! Just Kronos, with my help - and that's what happened. Joe, I couldn't beat Kronos. I never could. I could barely beat Silas. But Kronos was the one who had to die. You know that."

"Yeah, so does Mac. Look - you don't have to stay long. Just give him time to vent, tell him the facts, let him think about it. If he goes back to Paris now, you two will never speak to each other again."

"Why would you give a damn about that?" Methos stood up but his eyes bored into Joe.

Joe's hand twitched - a knife, a gun, his cane, anything might penetrate that thick hide where his words could not. "Mac asked me the same question. I think I'm insulted."

Methos glared for a moment but then his expression suddenly softened. "I'm sorry. You're worried about your friends. I should have realised. It's been a long time since anyone gave that much thought to me."

"That's what you think, buddy. Now will you be good and go to Church, for papa Joe?"

Methos grinned. "For papa Joe, okay. But if Mac kills me, I'll never settle that bar tab."

"Huh, I'll get it from Mac before I shoot him. Now, give the store a call."

The call and the transaction were disposed of quickly. Methos yawned as he hung up, then looked at Joe apologetically. "Sorry. I haven't had much sleep lately."

"I don't know how you could sleep at all with Kronos around."

"I couldn't," he said bleakly.

"Not sorry he's dead?" Joe asked, his curiosity overcoming his sense of Methos' reluctance on the subject.

"Not at all. I should have killed him two thousand years ago - that would have been the honest thing to do. But I'm sorry about Silas." He shut up abruptly and went over to sit on the bed, fiddling with the drawers, pulling the Gideon's out and flicking through it for apparent want of anything else to relieve his stress. At least, Joe doubted it was just Methos being ironic. He didn't say anything but let his silence ask for more. "He shouldn't have been there," Methos said finally, quietly. "He was happy, living as he was. He thought we were dead. It would have been better to have left things that way."

"Kronos..."

"Had no idea Caspian and Silas were still alive. I have no conscience about Caspian - he was like the living dead where he was. But Silas ... Silas' death is unforgivable."

"You said he was a killer."

"I said I was a killer and you told me it was all in the past. So it was for him. He wouldn't have killed anyone else if I hadn't come along. He didn't go looking for trouble. He liked simple things, simple pleasures. Animals. Women. Kids."

"So he was just a big ole softie?" Joe said sceptically.

"I never said that, Joseph," Methos said harshly. "But it isn't only the perfect and the saintly who deserve to live. Silas died because his oath of loyalty meant more to him than mine did to me. Don't try to tell me that he deserved to die for that."

"He was only following orders?"

Methos shot him a filthy look. "Don't give me that, Joe. We were his brothers, and he had sworn a blood oath to defend us. Cassandra and Mac were a threat, therefore they were our enemy. He was right of course. I'm the traitor, the oathbreaker. The murderer."

"All Immortals are murderers, more or less."

Methos snorted. "Some more than others, don't you think?"

"Look - do you think that I should excuse myself for the death of that kid because my captain wanted me to do it? Because we got the information we were after because all the women and children were so terrified I was gonna mow them down too?"

"I told you - there is no equivalence. Don't patronise me, Watcher."

"Well, don't feed me this crap!" Startled, Methos looked at him open-mouthed. "You did what you thought was right, a friend died, the world got saved. Suck it up and shut up. You're old enough and way ugly enough to know that Silas was dangerous, and he had to die just the same as Kronos did. If Mac had killed him, he'd be just as dead. And I'm not gonna shed any fucking tears over that monster, or any of them. If you want to, go ahead, just don't kid yourself about who they were. And for Christ's sake, get your head straight before you talk to Mac - he already thinks you wish it was him dead, not them."

"I don't ... he thinks ... Joe, I'd die to protect him!"

Joe's heart bled a little at the bald declaration. "Well, go convince him. I already know it. Silas died with a sword in his hand, fighting the good fight. A brave end. How many of your victims died that well, that cleanly?" It was a low blow, and Methos' face pinched in pain.

"Hardly any," he whispered. "That's a pretty shitty thing to say, Dawson." But there was no real heat in his words.

Joe held his ground. "It was a shitty thing for you to do. For Silas to do. All I'm saying is that he died the way he wanted to die. It ain't the worst thing that coulda happened to him."

He waited and finally Methos worked a few things out, straightened up a little. "God, Joe. I'm sorry. You didn't need to hear all that."

"That's my job. Observe and record. Besides, listening is in the barman's manual, didn't you know that?"

Methos grimaced. The knock at the door announced the arrival of his clothes, and the time it took for Methos to change in the bathroom gave them both a valuable timeout. He looked less grim, less stressed when he emerged, and he poured them both a fresh glass of wine before flopping in the armchair. "You're right, of course. I am being self-pitying, and of the many things I dislike about myself, that's the one I try hardest to avoid."

"Methos, look - I know it bites, and maybe you're right. But you can't change the facts, and the way it all shook out, it was for the best. You of all people know how to get on with your life."

"Unfortunately, yes. Why is this so easy for you, Joe?"

"Who said it was easy?"

The words dropped into a sudden silence, as their eyes met. Methos blinked first. "Thank you, my friend," he said quietly.

"You're welcome. Now why don't you get some air - I need some privacy." And some time, Joe added silently.

Methos stood and stretched. "I may as well walk to the church and look around. I'll see you afterwards?"

"Unless you poke your eyes out with a stick, you will."

Methos coughed a surprised laugh and waved a farewell before slipping out.

Joe knew he should write that report. He knew that MacLeod wouldn't kill Methos. He knew Methos wouldn't kill MacLeod. So why the hell was it so hard to concentrate?

 

* * *

He was half-asleep in the armchair in front of the room's TV, his laptop long since switched to the screen saver, when a knock came on the door. He cursed as he struggled up, wishing he'd given the old man the key. He pulled open the door and Methos nearly fell through it. "Jesus!" Joe yelled as Methos caught hold of him, nearly pulling him down. "Methos, for Christ's sake! You're drunk."

Methos gazed up at him, blinking owlishly. Joe had little choice but to let him fall - if they both went down, he'd have trouble getting up and Methos was no help - but he would later admit to himself that the dull thud of the other man's body hitting the ground was just a little satisfying. But then Methos made no move to rise, blocking the door. Joe whacked him with his cane. "Move, you idiot!"

Methos grunted, and slowly levered himself up. Joe slammed the door shut. "Well, ain't this a picture. How the hell did you get like this?"

Methos swayed on his knees and stared at him guilelessly. "By drinking alcohol, Joe."

Joe just barely resisted whacking him again, stepped around him and reached for the phone. He dialled room service and ordered a pot of coffee, then turned to look at Methos. "Make that two pots," he growled before he hung up.

"Now, get up and tell me what the hell happened to you." He leaned on his cane and glared at the sot until Methos slowly got up and weaved over to the armchair, slumping in it. "Did you talk to Mac?"

"Yup."

"And?"

"He's pissed," Methos said solemnly. "I'm a bastard."

"You're all bastards, Methos. What did he say?"

"Not much. I tricked him."

"So he's still mad at you?"

"Yup."

Joe sighed. He was afraid of this. And Methos had gone and got drunk instead of coming back to talk to him. Just like he'd done when Alexa had died - no one had seen him for a week after the funeral and when Mac had gone around finally, he'd found him in a mess of broken, empty bottles, curled into a ball, crying. But he'd been okay after a few tough words, a cold shower and being taken back to the barge for a few days. All Joe had to offer now was his friendship.

Methos hauled himself up in the chair, turning away from Joe, his hands clutching the edge of the chair tightly, and tremors shook him. Joe pulled up the stool and sat next to the armchair. "So did you get drunk because he's mad at you?"

"No," the answer came, muffled against Methos' arm.

"So, why?"

Methos turned his head and Joe saw the weary grief. "Drinking to the dead and the lost."

"I would have come with you."

"I didn't think you'd understand," Methos said, burying his face again. Joe reached for his arm.

"Look at me."

"Go 'way, Joe. Let me sleep it off."

"Methos, look at me?" Reluctantly Methos did that, and Joe saw the tears this time. "Buddy, I know, okay? It doesn't matter what they became - they were your family, your brothers." And one day, he would tell Methos about Andrew Cord, but things were already too emotionally laden.

"Yes," Methos whispered. "And now I am alone."

"No. No, you're not. Not while I'm alive. Not while Mac is."

"He hates who I am."

"He hates what you did. So do I. But I don't hate you. Mac doesn't hate you." Methos began to shake with silent, tearless sobs, and Joe massaged the arm under his hand. "Why don't you get some sleep? It won't look so bad in the morning." Methos stared at him with those limpid, soulful eyes that made Joe melt. He answered the unspoken question he saw in them. "I'll be here. You won't be alone. You're safe."

He tugged on Methos' arm, and slowly the Immortal uncurled and stood up, his breathing still hitching. But then Methos did a curious thing - he took Joe's hand in his and bowed his head. What is it you want, Joe wondered? He gently urged the other man's head up with a hand under his chin, and let his eyes speak understanding. Forgiveness. And love, although he doubted Methos could see it. Whatever you have done, my friend, he thought, it's what you are now that counts. You deserve to be happy.

Methos looked at him for a long moment, and in that moment, Joe saw a little of the old, naked soul behind that young, changeable face. Regret, grief, pain, certainly. A lifetime of lifetimes, all the joys and miseries, the extraordinary experiences, the mundanity of everyday living. How do you just keep going on? Joe wondered.

Methos squeezed Joe's hand before letting go. Nothing needed to be said. Not in words, at least.

 

* * *

Three weeks later in Paris, Joe sighed internally, wishing that Mac's demons were so easily soothed as yet again the Scot sat at the bar in grim and unwelcoming silence. He was bad for trade, if nothing else, and if he weren't Joe's assignment, he'd have banned him from the bar days ago. "Go home, MacLeod," he finally growled, and rather to his relief, the Scot stood and shoved his empty glass away from him, taking up his coat.

Mac turned to go but then looked back at Joe. "He hasn't been in, Mac," Joe said in answer to the question unasked tonight, but always there. "Hell, you know where he lives, why don't you just go around and see him."

"I ... I can't. You know why."

"No, I don't, MacLeod. For three weeks you've been staring at my bottle collection. Maybe it knows, but I don't. He said you were mad at him."

"I'm ... not ... Joe ... you know what he did ... Cassandra...." Mac fell silent.

Joe bit back a sarcastic comment about the lack of eloquence. "Are you mad at him or not?"

"He lied to me."

"Yeah."

"He manipulated us."

"So you said. What else?"

"That's enough."

"Okay - so why are you settling in for a bout of cirrhosis?"

Mac turned soulful eyes on him. "I thought he was a friend, Joe."

"He thought the same, Mac. Still does, so far as I know."

"But he hasn't called, hasn't dropped by."

"Mac, he thinks you want to take his head!"

"No!"

"So go and tell him."

"I can't."

Joe sighed. "So go home, Mac. I can't help you."

Mac looked at him for a moment, shrugged and walked out.

Joe sighed again, and hit his metal leg with his cane in frustration. He'd misled Mac somewhat, at Methos' request. He _had_ seen Methos, just not at the bar. Methos was avoiding 'Le Blues Bar' but to Joe's relief, he wasn't drinking on his own. In fact he was immersing himself in his graduate studies, now close to finishing, and had a shot at a position in the Sorbonne. But he hadn't expressed any interest in getting together with MacLeod, as if he thought there was just no point. Joe wondered how he'd ended up caught between two bull males like this - two _wounded_ bull males.

But Mac was getting worse - it had gone against the grain to deprive Cassandra of her Challenge, so he'd told Joe, but he couldn't let her kill Methos. Even though there was a good argument that Methos deserved to die. When Mac had first said that, Joe went cold inside - he knew that if Mac ever tried, there was no way on this God's earth he could keep his oath and not interfere. Fortunately, Mac wasn't serious, but the agonising, silent or spoken, was as painful to witness as it apparently was to endure. It couldn't go on.

He debated what was the best course of action - to telephone or to go around to Methos' apartment - and in the end he called. "Hello?" a sleepy voice answered and Joe realised in chagrin it was nearly one in the morning. He'd got carried away with the urge to settle this matter and forgotten the time. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Adam, it's me, Joe."

"Joe? Is something wrong?"

"No, no ... look, sorry to wake you up, I'll call tomorrow."

"Joe, what's wrong?" Methos' voice sounded a lot more awake, and alarmed.

"Nothing - look, Adam, can you come to the bar tomorrow?"

"You rang me up at .... twelve fifty two in the fucking a - m ... to invite me to your establishment? Have you been drinking more than usual?"

"Adam, please? Mac's driving me crazy."

"And how will my presence change that, Joe? Has it escaped your attention the reason he's moping is because of yours truly?"

"Yeah, I know. Adam, you gotta talk to him."

"Dawson, I don't 'gotta' do anything. And that includes getting into a verbal or fist or sword fight with Duncan MacLeod in your bar, or any other bar, hotel, public or private place."

"Come on, how much can it hurt?"

"Oh, I dunno, I guess it depends on how fast he swings the katana. Joe, I'm hanging up and going back to bed, I'll talk to you tomorrow..."

"Methos!"

"Joe..." Methos warned.

"Please - for me, just once."

He heard Methos exhale into the phone receiver. "If I do this, and it doesn't work - that's it, okay? Joe, I'm trying to get on with my life - MacLeod will too, eventually, whatever I do."

"Please?"

"You are the most persistent bastard I have ever met!"

"Please?"

"Yes, okay! Now let me get some fucking sleep!" and then the phone was hung up. Despite the serious intent of his call, Joe couldn't suppress a wry grin. That had almost been fun, and God only knew that had been in short supply recently. Damn, one way or another, he was spending too much time thinking about Methos. That had to stop.

 

* * *

But Methos wasn't the first Immortal through Joe's door - Amanda was, and after she left, he logged on to read a worrying report by the Watcher of an Immortal by the name of Stephen Keane. The Watcher reported seeing an unknown Immortal interfere with a Challenge by his assignment, fail to take Keane's head after the intervention of one Duncan MacLeod, who also failed to take Keane's head. The Watcher had lost sight of Keane until early evening, when he and MacLeod went at it again, and again both men walked away alive. Boy, did Joe ever want to hear the story behind this.

His first chance to do so came when a morose, and more than slightly pissed off old Immortal slunk into his bar and grabbed an unopened bottle of whiskey. "Planning to make a night of it, Adam?"

He found a long finger wagging under his nose and he pulled back. "You and that bloody woman are going to be the fucking death of me, do you hear me, Joseph Dawson?" Methos hissed furiously. "First you haul me out of bed after midnight, then little Miss Mink Knickers wakes me up at three o'clock. 'Oh, Methos'," he minced in a high-pitched voice, "'Please, you have to save Duncan from himself and that big bad Stephen Keane.' So like a bloody fool I try, and get Mac even _madder_ than he was before, and now he _really_ isn't speaking to me! I'll be lucky if he doesn't Challenge me as soon as he sees me."

As Methos struggled with the whiskey cork, Joe thought he was probably exaggerating, since he would undoubtedly be on the first coach out of Dodge if he really thought he was in danger. But he was intrigued by Amanda thinking Methos could stop Mac - and at Methos agreeing. The old man hadn't written the friendship off - that was a good sign, and he was raised to be an optimist. Now he just had to find out how mad Mac really was, and maybe the two of them might start behaving like civilised people again.

"I read the report - Mac let Keane go?"

"Sure he did, Joe. Didn't you know that was his latest hobby - letting unworthy psychopaths live?"

"Keane's not a psycho."

"Yeah? He looked pretty damn screwy to me." Methos threw back a shot of the Scotch and poured out another. Resentment and anger rolled off him in waves. "Him, he can understand. Him, he can forgive. Even himself, he can find excuses for. But not for me. Oh no, I'm too horrible for that. Well, let me tell you something - his kill rate is pretty fucking impressive too!"

Well, whining made a change from guilt and grief, Joe thought, but the old guy sure picked his moments. "Keep your voice down, Adam," he said angrily, but in a low voice. "I don't think my customers want to hear about the reminiscences of the fourth lush of the Apocalypse." Okay, no one was close, and Methos hadn't been that loud - but shit, the old guy must be plenty mad if he could forget himself to that extent. The way MacLeod and Methos were carrying on was going to get someone killed - and Joe was increasingly thinking it might be him.

"Fine. I'll just go and bore some empty air. Put the bottle on my tab - no, you probably don't trust me for it." Methos pulled out a wallet and threw down a sizeable bundle of franc notes. "That ought to cover most of the bill. I'll settle what's left tomorrow." And then he snatched up the bottle and his glass and stalked over to a corner seat, facing away from the bar and began to made serious inroads into his sobriety.

Some days, Joe thought, it don't pay to get out of bed. He was busy, and he was up to play several sets, but as the hours passed, he kept an eye on Methos, who drank steadily but kept control over himself. Joe's heart ached for the misery he saw there, and the minute he could get free he made his careful casual way over to Methos' table. "Got one left for me?"

Methos cocked an eyebrow, looked at the single glass, coolly poured out a shot then took a slug from the bottle, a look of dare in his eyes. Joe refused to rise to the bait, figured Immortals probably couldn't give him anything but heartburn, and drank from the used glass. "So. Come to any conclusions?"

"'Bout what, Dawson?"

"Oh, I dunno. Why don't you suggest a topic?"

Methos sighed. "Joseph, you are either doing the world's worst Marx brothers imitation, or you are trying to get on my wick. Why can't I just drink quietly without disturbing anyone, including myself?"

"You could do that anywhere, Adam. Why did you come here tonight?"

"You told me to, remember?"

"But Mac's not coming?"

"How the hell would I know? When I saw him last, Amanda was wearing him like a cheap stole."

Uh huh, Joe thought. Now we're getting somewhere. "You know, Adam, Mac's always gone for women," he said gently.

"Tell me something I don't know, Dawson. Since when did you give a damn about my love life, anyway?"

"As I recall, you're the one who keeps dragging me into it," Joe said dryly and was shocked at the sudden loss of colour in Methos' face.

"Uh ... are you going out of your way to cut me open, Joe?" He was puzzled until he suddenly realised how his words could have sounded.

"I'm sorry, Adam - I forgot about Alexa."

"I should be so lucky."

"You don't mean that."

"No." Methos took another slug. "But I am getting self-pitying again, so I think I'll leave." He stood up and pushed the bottle over to Joe. "It's on me."

Joe reached out his hand and grabbed Methos' arm. "Wait - look, Adam, do you want to come up and have some coffee? I feel bad about you being on your own."

Methos' eyes opened wide. "Joe, what the hell has gotten into you? I live on my own, I've spent a great deal of my life on my own. What on earth makes you think that I won't be able to cope now?"

Joe dropped his arm. "Aw, forget about it. Forget I ever mentioned it."

Methos hooked up his coat and walked towards the door - but then he turned around and came back to sit down again. "What's going on?"

"I thought you were going home."

"You think I could sleep after that? Come on, Joe, tell Uncle Adam what's wrong?"

Joe couldn't help but laugh - he was trying to cheer Methos up, and the only thing that worked was the idea that _he_ needed cheering up. "Nothing, Adam. I just thought you might want to talk, and I was in a mood to listen. But if you're okay, then I'm not gonna bother you." He levered himself up. "Listen, I'm just gonna finish up in here. I'll see you around."

Methos stripped his coat off. "Let me help? And maybe that coffee wouldn't be a bad idea after all."

Joe assessed his friend. He looked tired but sober, and as if he were suddenly glad of something to do. "Okay, sure. Let me just clear the bar."

He let Mike go home early, and he and Methos worked in companionable silence. Methos had helped out many times before and Joe didn't have to say what needed to be done. Just like an old married couple, he thought ruefully, and boy, he didn't need that thought.

Methos put the kettle on upstairs and made them both a light supper of toasted sandwiches - Joe was bushed. The old man was too, he knew, but he didn't have aching stumps and hips to deal with. Methos seemed to know that Joe was in some pain without even asking, even if his bedside manner as an actual doctor left a lot to be desired. "Do you really think Mac could have lost to Keane?" he asked as Methos handed him the food and a mug.

Methos shrugged. "Amanda thought so. I don't know. Keane was good, Mac was better. Motivation's important but self-preservation has a way of making itself felt. We'll never know now, will we?"

"And he's just mad because you interfered."

"Yeah. I don't think he appreciated the reminder that he isn't exactly Snow White - not from me, that's for sure." Methos looked away and sipped his drink.

"You should try talking to him. Tell him why you didn't say anything about Kronos."

"I bloody well told him, Joe!" Methos ' exasperation was obvious. "I knew what he'd say, how he'd react. And he did exactly what I thought he would."

"Did you give him a chance to do anything else?" Methos just snorted. "Well, did ya?"

"No, I didn't. And it's too late for all that anyway."

"You're sure about that, are you?"

"What's your point, Dawson?"

"I'm just saying that he's been in here for weeks eating his heart out. And you're doing the same ..."

"I've been _busy_ , Joe."

"Yeah, too busy to come and have a drink. Give it another try. For me."

Methos looked at him with narrowed eyes. "This isn't like you, Joe."

"The situation's unusual. Look, you know he's not gonna kill you. You say he's mad already. What have you got to lose?"

Methos sighed. "You're right, I suppose. But I do have a life outside Duncan MacLeod, so do you. Let's talk about something else - how was London?"

Satisfied with his efforts, Joe was happy to discuss the three days he'd spent in England a week back, and was enthusiastic about the young musician who'd joined them for a couple of sets. "He's playing on Thursday, you should really come and hear him."

"I'd like that. It's been a while since I had a good evening listening to the blues."

That reminded Joe of one of the imported CDs he'd picked up in London, and Methos put it on, pouring them both some sipping bourbon to sit on while they listened it. God almighty, Joe thought, I could get so used to this. Watching Methos, his eyes closed in pleasure, as the gentle sensuous sounds of the music rolled over them both and twined with the rich taste of the whiskey on his tongue. The old man's face was tranquil, totally relaxed as Joe had rarely seen him - certainly not since Alexa had died, he realised. Just a year ago. Man, it seemed a lifetime since he'd seen the two of them off on their mad, doomed trip around the world. Even now when he thought of her, he got all teary. How did Methos cope? So many deaths, so many losses. No wonder MacLeod brooded.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed that Methos' empty glass had slipped from lax fingers, and that the man himself had slipped down and was now soundly asleep. Another wish granted, in such an unsatisfactory fashion, Joe thought, easing himself up and finding the spare blanket. He laid it gently over the sleeping man, unable to restrain himself from tenderly caressing the unlined brow, so unmarked by a long and eventful life. Sighing, he used the bathroom and put himself to bed, but not to sleep, not for a long time.

Rather to his surprise, Methos didn't wake even with the clatter he was making in the kitchen the next morning, not that he was going out of his way to wake him up. He hadn't even moved, or so it looked to Joe, but he shot up when there was a knock at the door, looking around wildly and groping, so it seemed, for his sword. Joe put his finger to his lips and looked through the spyhole. "It's MacLeod."

"Shit!" Methos swore, throwing the blanket aside. "Where's my sword?"

"Methos!" Joe hissed. "Settle down. Anyway, I've got my gun." He pulled the weapon out of his coat by the door, and Methos' eyes widened before he grinned and waved him to continue.

Joe opened the door, keeping his gun out of sight. "Morning, MacLeod. What can I do you for?"

Mac started to speak but spotted Methos on the sofa. "What are you doing here?"

"None of your business, MacLeod," Methos snarled, and Joe sighed. These two.

"Hey, coffee's just on, do you want some?" The two Immortals glared at each other and for a moment, Joe thought he really might have to use his gun, but then Mac tore his eyes away from Methos.

"Yeah, that'd be good."

"So, Mac, what's up?" Joe bustled about, ignoring the fact that Methos had stalked off to the bathroom without another word.

"I just wanted to know if anyone saw Methos yesterday. I mean, Watchers," he said in a low voice.

"They did."

"Damn, I knew they would. Did they ID him?"

"No. Not as far as I know. You're worried about him?"

"It was a stupid thing to do."

"And an unnecessary one," Methos said bitingly, the bathroom door slamming behind him. "Joe, thanks for the sofa, I'll see you around." He headed straight for his coat and the door.

"Wait, Methos! Hold on - stay for breakfast. Mac was just asking if anyone ID'ed you yesterday - I was telling him I didn't think so."

Joe saw Methos cover surprise with annoyance. "What business is it of yours, anyway?"

Mac spread his hands. "Methos, look, I'm sorry. I've been thinking about what you said. I still don't think you should have interfered, but I appreciate you were trying to help. So was Amanda."

"And if you forgive her, you have to forgive me?" Methos shot back. Mac just stared at him, until Methos' stance relaxed. "Very well. Apology accepted. And the coffee, thanks, Joe."

Joe poured out a mug and handed it to Methos who sniffed it gratefully. He stiffened as Mac said, trying to be light and failing, "So, how come you're camping out on Joe's couch? You get thrown out of your apartment?"

"Contrary to popular belief, MacLeod, I am not as antisocial as all that."

Mac backpedalled immediately. "It was a joke, Methos ...."

"Guys, come on. It's too early to argue. Mac, go sit down. Have you had breakfast?"

Distracted, Mac took a moment to respond. "Uh, yeah. Just coffee, Joe."

Joe nudged Methos. "Sit down, you're in my way." Methos scowled and obeyed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two Immortals sitting stiffly, not really looking at each other. Who was going to break first?

"Um, Amanda said the new club on Rue Gascogne is worth a visit," Mac ventured tentatively.

"My disco days are long behind me, Mac," Methos said, without a trace of humour.

"You did disco?"

"Didn't everyone?"

"Not me. I look terrible in a white suit."

Joe had to grin at the idea of Mac as Tony Manero, and catching his look, Methos smiled too. "Yes, I can imagine."

"So what was it for you? White or gold lamé?"

"Oh, please, Mac. Lamé? Leather was the only way to go."

Joe's mouth went dry at the idea of all that powerful leanness encased in tight leather, and was he only imagining that red flush on Mac's face? He put a plate of croissants on the table, and the coffee pot. "Disco just proved that white folk can't dance," he opined, and was glared at in righteous indignation by both his guests, who immediately defended their terpsichoral reputation at length and with passion. It was over an hour later when Methos stretched. "Sorry to break up the party, guys, but I've got things to see, people to do and all that."

"Do you need a lift?" Mac said, a little too quickly.

"No, my car's downstairs unless it got stolen last night. But, uh, thanks."

"Well, I'll walk you out. Amanda will be wondering if I've taken another Challenge." Mac had his back turned, so only Joe saw Methos' grimace. Way to go, Highlander, he thought. So many goddamn minefields between these two.

He stood to see them out. "Mac, the guys are playing on Thursday, you coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it. I'll see you." Mac held the door open politely for Methos and the two men left, hopefully on the road to better relations.

Joe contemplated the litter, folded the blanket, and thought wistfully of how nice it was to have breakfast with people he liked. The he shook his head and got on with the day.

 

* * *

He didn't see either of them until Thursday, but when they walked in together, he knew things were better. Not perfect - they were being too careful with each other for that. There was a long way to go before the jokey ease he'd taken for granted between them was restored. But Methos smiled and Duncan looked cheerful, and they both enjoyed the band. Maurice was there, helping to oil the social wheels, and the young kid was everything Joe had promised. He beamed proudly at Mac when the Scot praised Mike's playing, and Methos was moving appreciatively to the rhythm. That's when things went pear-shaped. The first Joe knew was Maurice moving away and then an uncharacteristic group of well - even over- dressed men and well undressed women came in, and then there he was. Byron. Even if Joe hadn't known who the Immortal really was, his present fame would have been enough to dazzle the small club. Methos' wide smile was enough to dazzle _Joe_ , that was for sure, and if he'd looked good before in his dark sweater and tight jeans, he positively exuded sexual attractiveness when Byron walked in. And he wasn't the only one feeling strangely possessive. Mac did everything but snarl, and his manners deserted him completely.

Methos was oblivious to Joe's unease and Mac's hostility - Joe never figured him for the starstruck type, but this was more than him being impressed by the showbiz. If Joe had ever seen that warmth in those hazel eyes turned on him, he'd have felt he'd died and gone to heaven. Byron, the little punk, just looked bored. Not that Mike noticed, Joe thought sourly. Suddenly there was a Byron-shaped people magnet drawing the interest to the back of the room. Sure, Mike played great, maybe even better after that, but Joe thought it was a shame that most people would only remember that the great Byron had been in the club that night.

Mike went off with him, that was a surprise, but he had to agree with Methos that it was a lucky break for him. Mac was the only dissenting voice, spitting out an insult as he walked away from them. Just perfect, Joe thought. Now Mac was jealous and had a beef with another friend from Methos' past. Well, surely this one wasn't going to end like the Kronos business.

 

* * *

Man, oh man. Did he call that one wrong or what? A dead musician, a dead Immortal poet, and Mac and Methos at loggerheads again. Methos hadn't realised the danger at first, Joe saw that, but then he spent a day frantically trying to get MacLeod not to kill Byron or Byron to leave town. Joe listened to his worries half in sympathy, half in annoyance. He was sorry that Methos was going to lose another friend one way or another, but he'd seen too many Mikes lost to the seduction of drugs and the biz, too many Byrons taking and taking from those weaker but just as talented to feed the empty maw of boredom. Mac had stormed around like a demented Angel of God - Joe knew that drugs were a hot button for the Scot, but he'd seen the looks between those two. He'd known MacLeod and Byron were going to going at it before long.

He felt for Methos though. The old man had really looked his age when he'd walked in earlier that evening. Without being asked, Joe poured him a Scotch, and Methos had drunk it down in just a couple of shots, shoulders hunched, his eyes hooded. "You couldn't stop him?"

"No. Of course not." Joe refilled the empty glass. "Thanks. Uh, did you manage to contact Mike's family?"

"One of my guys is trying. He was just a kid, Adam."

"Yes, I know. He didn't deserve to die."

Joe wasn't sure who they were talking about now. "Do you think Mac will...?"

"I'm not sure, Joe." For the first time, Methos looked straight at him. "I taught Gordon to cheat, after all."

"He was your _student_?" Goddammit. Another complication.

Methos' mouth twisted. "Student, lover, friend. Take your pick."

Joe stared, unsure what to make of the sudden revelation. He polished some glasses while he thought about it. Methos didn't seem to care about the silence.

"So how come it was so long since you'd seen him? Did you two have a fight?"

"With Gordon? God, no. We just had different priorities. I wanted to live, he wanted to try every dangerous activity known to mortal or Immortal. He staged his own death and I lost track of him after that. I didn't exactly want people tracing my identities, not like a certain demented Scot of our acquaintance." Methos finished his drink. "Anyway, I was too boring for him. I liked to read, he liked to write. He was a doer."

Joe noticed the use of the past tense, and hoped that it was a prediction. He could sense that Methos' loyalties weren't entirely evenly divided, he thought he detected a bias towards MacLeod's victory, but he knew it would bite. And it did. Methos was like stone when Mac walked in two hours later, when the bar was closed. He'd worked his way through half a bottle of Scotch, but was wearing it well - well enough not to jump all over Mac for what he'd done. And MacLeod looked upset - rough Quickening, Joe guessed, or maybe he just got a few surprises. Nothing like a Quickening, Methos had told him once, for stripping the dead of all their secrets. So now Mac knew what he knew about Methos and Byron. Would it make a difference? Could they get past this new barrier?

He ignored them while he played, or so he wanted them to think. But he was watching them. The body language looked real bad from where he sat. Neither of them looking at each other, not talking. But not walking out either, not shouting - that had to be a good sign, right?

As he played, and watched, his emotions shifted and pulsed with the song of his instrument, moving between naked worry, jealousy that even with Byron between them, Methos was still more fixated on Mac than he ever would be on him, and frustration that he couldn't stop himself pushing the two together even when it was screwing his own chances. And all the time, his guitar wailed and sobbed his love, his pain, riffing effortlessly upon the rawness of a man's soul.

Finally, his turmoil exorcised a little by his music, and feeling weary, he laid his guitar aside and unplugged the amp. "Well that's it, gents, I'm beat. You two want to come up for coffee, or head on home?"

"Coffee." "Home." The two voices clashed and Methos spoke again. "I think I'll go home, Joe. I'm tired too."

"Mac?" Now he wished he hadn't issued the invitation - Methos could have given the Highlander a ride home, and he really was beat - but Mac perked up a little.

"Sure, Joe. I'd like that."

Joe looked at Methos, who shook his head as he stood up. "Well, I'll see you later." It wasn't clear if Mac was included in that statement. Methos waved at them as he went out the front door.

Mac looked ruefully at Joe. "He's mad as hell, isn't he?"

"Methos? I'm not getting those vibes."

"But?"

"Think about it, MacLeod. He's losing people fast. Who's taking their place?"

Mac leaned against the bar. "Kronos wasn't a friend."

"I know that, so does he." He waited for Mac to join the dots. It didn't take long.

"Byron was a menace. I couldn't let him go because of him." But Mac's voice was heavy with regret.

"He knows that too. All I'm saying is that it hurts. Did you talk to him about Bordeaux yet?"

Mac turned away and faced the shelves of booze - thinking of oblivion? Joe wondered. "I tried. Why does it have to be so hard between us?" he said softly.

Joe didn't have an answer - not one, at least, that Mac would want to hear. "Do you want that coffee?"

"No, not really. I just wanted to talk to you, but it's late."

"Yeah. Look, come by for lunch, okay?"

"Okay. I'll see you."

Joe followed him to the door, and nearly ran into the back of him. "What?"

Mac peered through the glass doors. "He's still out there," he said in surprise. He reached for the door but Joe laid his hand on his arm.

"Let me, Mac. You ... you might not be the right person right now."

For a second, Joe thought the Highlander was going to argue, but then he stepped aside. "I'm going to wait - Joe, if he needs..."

"I'll get you."

The streets were empty, and damp from an earlier shower. Methos was parked away from the streetlight, and for a moment, Joe thought he was asleep at the wheel. He certainly had his head pillowed on his arms, but he jerked up when Joe tapped on the window, and wound it down. "What's up?"

"You are, pal." The light behind Joe glinted here and there on moisture on Methos' face. "Mac was worried about you."

Methos brushed his face against his arm. "Uh, I was feeling tired. Drank too much, I guess."

Drunk from grief, Joe figured. "Why don't you let him drive you home? He's coming by for lunch, you can pick your car up then."

"Are you matchmaking again, Joe? I'm not in the mood."

"Hey, if you want to sleep in your car, you go right ahead."

He started to walk away and was disappointed when Methos didn't call him back. He turned around. "Adam?" But the other man was again slumped against the wheel. He walked back to the club a little way, and saw Mac pressed against the door, watching. He waved him out but stopped him going straight to Methos' car. "Mac - take it easy on him."

"What the hell do you take me for?" Mac said fiercely. "Do you think I _want_ to keep hurting him?"

Joe was shocked by what he saw in the Scot's dark, shadowed eyes, and stepped aside without another word. Maybe Mac would get it wrong again. Maybe Methos would. But damn if both of them didn't care like hell about the other.

He watched Mac shake Methos' arm gently, and the other man shifted, but he couldn't hear what was being said. To his intense relief, he saw Mac open the driver door, and after Methos moved over to the passenger seat, Mac eased behind the wheel, started the engine and drove them both away. The only thing that would have made Joe happier was if Methos had come back with him to sleep in his apartment - but he knew neither of them would come to harm this night. Thank God for that, he thought feelingly.

 

* * *

It wasn't the same, of course. There was too much, too soon, for either man to swallow, and Joe hadn't expected a miracle. He was just glad that they both kept coming to the club, and that when one was there, the other was friendly. But not close - not yet, at least. They talked more to him than to each other, and there was none of the sarcastic teasing that used to buzz like wasps on a tear when the old man was around. Mac was polite, and too careful. Even Methos noticed, Joe saw that, but he didn't comment, and he certainly did nothing to break Mac out of the mould.

Richie coming back into town to visit his teacher was a relief for all of them - someone else to act as a buffer, a fresh source of news, gossip. The first night Mac came with Richie to the bar, Methos was there, and to Joe's surprise, didn't immediately make his excuses - he and Richie had never really been that close, and Joe well knew Methos had been more than a little irritated by the youngster's constant teasing over his age.

It might have been better if Methos had left. The kid was oblivious or uncaring about the changed atmosphere, and he resumed the ungentle mauling of Methos' stature that was once the province of his mentor. Methos rose half-heartedly to the bait, but Joe came close to telling Richie to cool it. Finally it was Mac who called a halt, taking his student home and for a few days after that, Methos and Joe were left to console each other. Methos handed in his thesis, something that he was planning to celebrate alone, but with a nudge from Joe, Mac invited them all to the barge for a surprisingly enjoyable evening. Mac must have had a word with Richie, because the kid was on his best behaviour for a change. For the first time in weeks, Methos smiled with genuine pleasure, and Mac looked relaxed.

And Richie hadn't been as oblivious as all that. Taking a beer up on the deck, he joined Joe who'd come up for some air (and privately, to let Mac talk to Methos). "So what's with Mac and the old guy?"

"What do you mean?" Richie was looking good, Joe noted. Ah, the carefree life of the young.

"Come on, Joe. They're like two dogs, dancing around each other. MacLeod won't tell me, and I'm sure as hell not going to ask Methos. So what gives?"

"If Mac won't tell you, I don't think I should. It's between them, Rich. And it's over."

Richie snorted. "Yeah, sure. It's like when Tessa was mad at Mac. I had to tiptoe around, in case I set either of 'em off. So, did they fight?"

"Richie, did anyone ever tell you about curiosity and cats?"

"I'm Immortal, Joe. Tell me."

Joe shook his head. "I can't. They've got to sort it out between them. Just don't push. It's been rough."

"I think one of them needs to get laid," Richie opined, drinking the last of his beer and tossing the bottle into the Seine.

"Don't we all, kid."

"Don't call me kid."

"Okay - kid," Joe teased, swiping at the fair hair. "Come on, let's break up the party."

The two older Immortals were in fact just sitting and talking comfortably, something that made Joe feel better than he had done in a while - it had _been_ a while since he'd seen them like this. "Hey, Joe, I was just asking Methos if he wanted to go to the opera tomorrow and he turned me down. What about you?"

Joe held his hands up. "Oh, no, MacLeod. You take that shit too seriously."

Mac turned his big brown eyes on Richie. "How about it, Rich?"

"Hey, Mac - I'd love to..."

"Great!"

"... but, you know, I've got some people I promised to look up and they're only in town for a couple of days ..."

Methos winked at Joe and stood up to wrap an overfriendly arm around the kid's shoulders. "Richie, you know, Mac really wants to show you a good time. And you know it would be nice for him to have someone to share it with."

Richie shrugged off the arm, no more trusting the old man in this mood than Joe would. "Then you go with him, old timer. I'd have thought opera would almost be pop music for you. Anyway, it's boring."

A beat before Mac did, Joe caught the dangerous glint in Methos' eye and then the oldest was kneeling at Joe's feet. "Oh, Joseph," he warbled in a falsetto, "marry me, or I shall have to take my life. Oh, save me, save me!"

Joe could hardly answer for laughing. "Buzz off, old man."

Methos struck a dramatic pose, climbing to his feet. "Spurned! What shall I do? Young Richard, surely you will take a young maiden, pure of heart and lissom of body?" He batted his eyes as he grabbed Richie's hands.

"You've finally lost it, Methos," Richie said with disgust, but he was grinning.

Methos skipped over to Mac who was looking amused and confused in equal measure. Methos took hold of the Scot's hair and pulled it out sideways in a fan. "What's this, a rival for my lover's affections? You treacherous wench, I will not see you steal my beloved from me!" He made as if to slap MacLeod, who swiftly grabbed the wandering hand and forced it neatly and quickly up behind Methos' back. "Oh, oh! Save me, Joseph, from this bully!"

Mac was nearly paralysed with giggling now, and Joe was just about bent double. "Cut it out, Methos," Mac finally gasped. "I can't take you anywhere." He let the other man go who collapsed on the sofa, his dark eyes twinkling at them all. He looks delicious, Joe thought ruefully.

"Not to the opera, at least. But do take Ryan. He needs to loosen up."

"Hey!"

"What's the matter, Rich?" Mac said deadpan. "Can't handle it?"

"I can handle it," Richie said defensively. Joe gave Methos a knowing look, and Methos tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, before standing.

"Well, since these two have a date tomorrow, I think you and I are _de trop_ , Dawson." He picked up his coat and handed Joe's to him. "Thanks for dinner, Mac. And the invitation. Maybe next time."

"Yeah, right," Richie added derisively. "Don't let the door hit you in the fanny as you leave, old timer."

Mac walked them to the door. "Take care, you two," he said, and Joe didn't miss the pleased surprise on Methos' face. In truth, it was the most peaceful and happy he'd seen either of them in weeks, and if he felt jealous at the warm way Methos and MacLeod were looking at each other, he had to admit, it was a lot more pleasant when these two were nice to each other.

Methos had given him a lift and so it was he who drove them both through the quiet streets back to Joe's apartment. "Want to come up for coffee?' he asked.

A slight hesitation, but the voice was warm enough. "Sure, why not?"

This was getting to be a habit, Joe thought. Mouth working without the brain involved. Not only was it late, but it was a peculiar torture for him to have Methos here in this private place, to behave just like a friend, and not to indicate in any way how he really felt. He always felt drained and tired after Methos left - but he couldn't seem to kick the habit. It might be different if he felt he could pursue the Immortal, but he knew that any idea along those lines was doomed to failure, and probably more unwanted attention from the Watchers.

Methos accepted the coffee gracefully and sank back in the sofa. "You'll ace the viva, won't you?" Joe asked.

"I hope so. I never take them for granted."

"What, after seven of them?"

"Seven doctoral examinations, four master's. They're all different. I can't be complacent."

"Heard any more about the Sorbonne position?"

"It's been filled, unfortunately. But there will be other ones. The universities in the States have a few places."

The thought made Joe feel cold. "But you like living in Paris."

"Been there, done that, Joe. One of the benefits of Immortality - you have time to come back to a place."

"Yeah, it's kinda different for us. You disappear for fifty years, come back and I'll be dead."

Methos shot him a startled look. "Is that what you think I'd do?"

"You didn't keep in touch with Byron."

"Gordon was a walking danger magnet - just like MacLeod. He pissed people off, and pissed off people sometimes aren't too fussy about whose heads they take. Joe, I swear, I'd always keep in touch."

"Don't do me any favours," Joe snapped back, unsure why he was so crotchety about this. It was more likely to drive Methos away than anything else. "Good night tonight, " he said in an effort to change the subject.

"Yes, nice to have someone else to take the brunt of Mac's worrying for a change."

"You don't like Richie much, do you?"

Methos pursed his lips. "Not dislike so much as..." He didn't finish, looking instead at his coffee.

"So much as...?"

"Joe, he's a friend of yours. I take a longer perspective than you."

"Methos, will you try and make some sort of sense?"

"I just don't think he's going to make old bones, okay?"

The meal he'd just eaten turned to frozen acid in Joe's stomach at Methos' words. "Why the hell not? Mac's a good teacher, and Richie's tough."

"Exactly. He has one of the best known Immortals on the planet as his teacher, so he is going to constantly be targeted by those who want a piece of Mac - you said it's happened before already, and it will keep happening. And his attitude will only make it worse - he needs to know when to run away. Mac will never teach him that."

"And you would."

"Of course I would. Rule number one. Stay alive. Honour will do you no good in the grave, and you can't best your enemies in two pieces. Ryan's got more sense than Mac in that regard, but I wonder how much of the MacLeod thinking he's absorbed. Surviving isn't all about skill. It's about your gut, and being afraid for the right reasons, and trusting your instincts. The irony is, I think Richie would have more chance of a long life if he'd never met Mac."

"That's a crappy thing to say." Joe didn't know if he was horrified or mad, but Methos looked unrepentant.

"Yes. But it's true nonetheless." Methos stood. "Thanks for the coffee, Joe. Sorry if I've caused any offence."

"Hell, Methos, don't go storming out in a fit - last I looked, you weren't Mac."

That surprised a laugh out of Methos. "I'm not storming out, Joe. It's nearly two am, that's all, and much as I appreciate the use of your couch from time to time, my own bed _is_ more comfortable." The Immortal smiled as if to reassure Joe, and it worked.

"Sure, pal. I know you don't mean Richie any harm. I mean, you don't, do you?"

"If I wanted that child's head, would I have put myself out over Kristin? Or my namesake?"

"Good point. Okay, then I'll see you around?"

"Sure." Methos touched his shoulder before getting his coat. "Sleep well, Joe."

It took every ounce of control Joe possessed not to ask Methos to stay just then. But he didn't, and the door closed behind the other man, leaving Joe, as usual, alone.

It was just commonsense, he thought. Watchers, Immortals - not a good combination. And Methos was about the worst person to fall in love with - secretive, devious. Lethal. It was just commonsense to keep his feelings under wraps and under control.

Commonsense sucked, Joe thought, sliding between cold sheets and turning out the light.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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